Secrets
by Ice Queen1
Summary: Sometimes, you really shouldn't push people. Sometimes you should leave them with them with their secrets. Wes whump. Bromance. Mentions of child abuse.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: Do I really feel like this is how Wes's life was? Nope. I think he's from a rich family who thought children should be seen and not heard, and he was only around to carry on the family name, not because they wanted kids. He already said he wished he had Travis's childhood and family connections because he has no one. But I felt like being particularly malicious. Bromance. Wes whump. My faves! Possibly a two parter….

In fairness, he should've expected it would eventually come to this. Their therapy group was a little too over informative for his tastes on the best of days, so why would today…or this particular subject…be any different?

They had to bring in their childhoods. Wes hated bringing his up. Ever. To anyone. Not to Alex. Not to his friends from grade school on. Not with his partner. And certainly not with a bunch of judgmental strangers he barely knew the first names of.

"Wes?" Doctor Ryan prompted, turning expecting eyes on him.

Wes kept his arms folded and leaned further back in his chair. He was in serious danger now of tipping ass over tea kettle backwards, but at least a concussion would get him out of the conversation they were trying to force on him.

"Tell us something about your childhood, please?" Dr. Ryan asked. She smiled in what was supposed to be an encouraging manner, but Wes had the sudden urge to slap her. No one else had to share their own personal nightmares. They all had good stories to tell - Christmases and birthdays and all manner of fun things. Even Travis's embarassing one was a nice one in hindsight. Besides, the man had no shame.

"I'd prefer not to," Wes replied coolly. He didn't smile, smirk, or otherwise change his facial expression to suggest he was just being contrary. This was a conversation he _would not_ have.

"Come on, man, everyone has to share something about their childhood! I told them about getting my first bike as a hand-me-down from my older foster sister and it was bright pink with pompoms and flowers all over it," Travis said. "You gotta have _something_ worth mentioning."

Wes resolutely shook his head. "Mentioning, yes. Sharing, no."

"I bet you grew up in a big fancy house," one of the other members said.

"Mom and dad gave you everything you ever wanted," the younger, newlywed man said.

"Got to go to all the best private schools…vacationing in the aspens," another said, smiling.

As they prattled off their imagined life for him, Wes could feel his face begin to flush, and he silently cursed being able to do it so easily. He wished he could wipe those smiles right off their faces, but he really didn't want to bring the memories back.

Travis watched his partner carefully – there was something off about his reluctance to share. He tried to head it off before Wes exploded. The man may be slow to anger, but when he actually got pissed off, he put Bruce Banner to shame. "Nah, man, it's cool. You can tell me about the snow bunnies in Aspen later at a stake out. I know how you like to bore me to death on them. This might be worth saving." He smiled briefly so that Wes would hopefully know he was trying to get the others to drop it.

Wes shot a disbelieving look at his partner, and his face came up enough that everyone could see the fading red from around his neck and ears. Travis didn't miss the gratefulness before one of the others spoke up.

"Look! He's blushing! It must be a good story!" one of the women said.

_No, that's not embarrassment, that's _anger_, _Travis thought to himself.

Wes glared at the woman, and she at least had the sense to look abashed. "Why would I be reluctant to share _any_ of those stories, if they were true?" Wes finally asked. "You don't think if I got everything I ever wanted, if I went skiing in the Aspens and every private school on the West coast I wouldn't want to brag about it?"

The group was silent for a moment, and Dr. Ryan looked like she might regret pushing Wes to share.

"What, not curious anymore? _Now_ I suddenly have a right to my privacy?" Wes asked in the same quiet, dangerous tone. "No, no. You don't get that privilege anymore. You want to know what my childhood was like?"

The group stayed quiet, including Dr. Ryan. There was a sort of nervous energy to the group now, like they were about to find out something that they really, really didn't actually want to know. And they were right. But now Wes was too angry to suddenly drop it. If he left it a mystery, they would come back to it eventually. Unless he told them something now, they were going to hound up for the rest of their time in therapy.

"Wes, man, you don't have to tell them anything," Travis tried to soothe, putting his hand up on his partner's arm.

Wes immediately shrugged it off. "Oh, I don't? Not _them_? But maybe I still owe _you_ an explanation, huh? _Partner_?" Wes snapped, throwing the word _partner_ as if it were a slur. "Fine." Wes picked up his chair and swiveled it around so he was facing Travis head on. "This is how a show and tell goes, right?"

"Wes, don't do this," Travis said quietly, trying to get his partner to calm down. "You don't owe _any_ of us an explanation."

"No, I think I do. Or at least, you all seem to _think_ I owe you some sort of explanation. A story about my childhood, huh? How about my tenth birthday? I spent it in police custody at the hospital. It was the fifth time my family was being investigated by Child Welfare Services. Want to see what my actual present was?" Wes yanked his sleeve up to his elbow, popping a button and not caring in his anger. Right next to his wrist and below his elbow were two small incisions, and Travis felt his stomach drop. He knew what those were from. He'd shattered his arm when he was eight skateboarding. He doubted that was Wes's story.

Wes flashed his arm to the rest of the group. "These are scars from the external fixator that I needed for the next six weeks. Know what those are? It's those big metal casts you have to get when the break is too severe for a normal cast. I was pushed down the stairs by my own father. Police report says I tripped. Want to see what I got for Christmas when I was eight?" Wes suddenly stood, and pulled the hem of his shirt out from the waistband of his suit slacks, hiking it up to just above the last couple of ribs. There was a long, jagged scar that went from his sternum to across the other side of his ribs. "Poker. Broke the skin, and when the bones snapped, a couple tore through, because at that point, I was so malnourished that my bones were like paper mache. Spent a month in the hospital. My parents got away with it, because they _were_ rich and powerful. They could explain, or buy or weasel their way out of it with their lawyers. But that's okay – it wasn't always a beat down I got as a gift. Sometimes they got more passive in their neglect. See this?" Wes turned, and they saw another scar, lower down on his stomach. "Know what this is?"

Travis did, because he'd seem some pretty bad child abuse cases when he was still a beat cop. His hand never moved from his mouth, because he wasn't sure he wasn't going to throw up if he did.

"This is from a feeding tube. I wasn't given food for a month, and when they finally remembered me, I wasn't able to eat on my own. They didn't even bother to take me to a hospital, just had a doctor come and do it for them at the house. I couldn't leave my room. I suppose I should be happy I wasn't left in the basement, hmm? Want to know what the worst part is? They didn't even intend to do it. They simply _forgot_ I was there. See, I'd already learned to stay away from them. If I asked for something or tried to talk to anyone about it, it just got worse. And worse, and worse. So I stopped talking. I stopped trying to tell people about what was going on. Because _nothing_ ever, EVER changed. I even tried to emancipate myself when I was 16. The court denied it. Because despite the overwhelming evidence that said my parents were some of the worst monsters out there, they all thought like you – they were rich, and privileged, and I should be grateful for all they gave me. Like the cumulative eight months I spent in a hospital bed thanks to them. Four surgeries. Seven different therapists to try and cope with the nightmares."

Wes dropped his shirt, not bothering to tuck it back in, and suddenly leaned forwards so that he was less than a foot from Travis's face. "See, Travis? I really did want your life. Any part of it. Because maybe I could've had it, if my parents would have just _let me go_."

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I'll probably upload more later, but for now…have to go to work! REVIEW!


	2. Chapter 2

Wes sat back in his chair, arms folded defensively across his chest. "Feel better now? Happy I shared my childhood memories? I know I am." He sat glaring at the rest of the group, who shamefully looked away.

Dr. Ryan was the first one brave enough to speak. "Wes, we didn't mean-"

"Didn't mean _what_? To badger me in to telling you about how I grew up as one of the worst child abuse cases CPS had seen? Is that what you didn't mean to do?" Wes was on a role, and he glared pointedly at each individual. "Maybe you didn't mean to stereotype me because of the profession I chose? The clothes I wear? The way I speak? Did you know that it took three months with a speech therapist to even get me to talk after I was removed from their 'care'? That it was another two before I could talk without stuttering? I wear suits because my parents wouldn't let me have anything but secondhand clothes from the maid's children who were twice my size? How about I became a lawyer so the next time they tried to take me back, I could defend myself when no one else would?"

"No, we didn't, but we're all here for you," Dr. Ryan began again, trying to recover any progress she had made with the pair. This was supposed to be a place of trust, where they could say anything. Obviously, Wes didn't believe that, and this was just a perfect example of why he had every right to question it.

"No, you're just here for your morbid curiosity. You want to talk about trust and sharing stories?" Wes abruptly stood again, pulling up his left pant leg. From just below his knee to midshin was a long, vivid scar. "Last time I told someone about my parents, this is what I got for my trouble. Turns out the teacher I told turned around and told my mother and father that I had a wild imagination. A week later, my father hit me with the car 'by accident' while I was playing basketball in the driveway. I was small, and he couldn't see me, was the official story. While we were in the hospital emergency room waiting for the doctor to come and prep for surgery to put the bone back, my father whispered in my ear that if I told anyone else, I would be lucky to make it to the hospital. I learned my lesson _real_ well."

"Wes," Travis said, trying to bring his partner back down. Maybe Wes did need to get this out in the open. Maybe this was the first time he'd ever told anyone about the scars on his body. But he also knew Wes well enough that if he told all the people here about his worst nightmares, then he was never coming back to therapy, no matter what the captain threatened.

"_What_, Travis?" Wes suddenly rounded on the younger man. "Isn't this what you wanted from me? Isn't this what you _all_ fucking wanted from me?"

Travis stayed sitting, so Wes didn't feel like he was being challenged or threatened, but he very pointedly met his partner's enraged gaze. "No. Not even a little. You have every right to tell us to fuck off next time."

Wes froze, his eyes widening. He suddenly seemed to shrink, deflate as his anger left him. Worst yet though, was the look of shock on his face. As if he'd never been told he had the right to his own life, before. And Travis wished he could take it back, because it looked like he'd just broken his partner.

Wes straightened abruptly, grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair, marching out of the room and closing the door quietly behind him.

Travis had to smile at that. Even pissed as hell, Wes didn't misbehave. The frown faded when he realized that it was probably because he couldn't misbehave as a child. He always assumed it was because Wes's parents held him to incredibly high standards. "Um, Doctor Ryan?" Travis said, standing and grabbing his coat. "I'll be back later. I'm just going to go check on him."

"Please," Dr. Ryan said, gesturing towards the door. "Tell him we're sorry, would you?"

Travis was out the door before the sentence was even done, jogging lightly towards the back exit where he knew Wes had most likely gone. Wes was the most private man he knew, and if he was going to break down like Travis suspected he was very close to doing, he would go where no one else was going to witness it.

He was right. Except now he had no idea what to do. Travis was always a tactile person – all of his foster siblings and parents were big on hugging, roughhousing, or even just claps on the back, but now he didn't want to push his partner over the edge he was obviously teetering on. The blond was pacing back and forth in short, erratic bursts in the back alleyway the building exited out to, one hand furiously pulling on his hair as if to distract him from whatever emotional pain he might have.

"Wes?" Travis said quietly, but his partner ignored him, or just didn't hear him. "Wes!" he tried a little louder.

"Go away, Travis," Wes ground out, talking past clenched teeth.

Travis shook his head, but didn't go any closer. Instead, he sat down on the steps for the emergency exit. "Can't do it, man. For one thing, what happens if you suddenly decide to leave?"

"Oh, what, now I can't go anywhere by myself?" Wes snapped.

"No, but you are my ride, and I'd prefer not to have to catch a lift with any of those guys," Travis said, smiling.

Wes snorted, but his pacing slowed, and his hand was no longer about to rip out a chunk of his own hair.

"You wanna talk about it any more?" Travis asked. "You know, without an audience? 'Cause you still seem pretty worked up. Not that I can blame you, but still…"

To be perfectly honest, he thought Wes would ignore him again, so he was more than a little surprised when Wes spoke.

"You know I was twenty before they stopped trying to get me back?" Wes asked. "It was like…they didn't want me, but they couldn't stand the idea that they'd lost. That I'd gotten away from them. I couldn't figure it out for the longest time, why they tried so hard to keep me. For a while, they tried to make me believe that they'd changed. That this time, it would be different. Some times it lasted for a whole month. But it always went back to the way it was. Back to _normal_," Wes said bitterly.

"But you're free of it now," Travis said. "You're thirty years old. You're your own man."

Wes laughed, and Travis caught the faint sheen to his eyes despite Wes looking at the ground and anywhere but at him, like Wes was trying valiantly not to let bitter tears fall. He was succeeding so far.

"Am I?" Wes said. "Every time I think I've put it behind me, every time I think I've moved on, something will catch me off guard. You know I don't have mirrors any more? I made the hotel take them out of my room. I never had them at the house with Alex. I still change as fast as humanly possible so I don't get a chance to see the roadmap my parents left me. I don't talk to any of my aunts or uncles or even my cousins because they all think it's my fault. Or that I made it up, that I was purposely trying to ruin the family. No one cared that my mother hit me so hard she knocked out an adult tooth when I was twelve. Or that my father used to make me sit in ice water for an hour until I was going in to shock because I had the heat set too high in my room. No never mind it was because they refused to give me more than a towel to keep warm at night." Wes stopped pacing all together, and looked at Travis, meeting his eyes for the first time since they were alone. "How fucked up is it that you wished the whole time you were growing up that you had a family…and I prayed every night I would be an orphan when I woke up?"

Travis couldn't think of anything to say, and to be honest, there really wasn't anything he _could_ say. But there was something he could _do_. Without giving Wes a chance to move away, Travis was suddenly on his feet, and threw his arms around his partner's…his _friend_'s shoulders in a fierce, brotherly hug.

Wes stiffened at the contact, completely unmoving as if the idea of a comforting hug was the most alien concept he could think of. And maybe it was. But Travis didn't care. Wes needed a damned hug.

"For what it's worth man…" Travis said, not letting go. "I wish you were an orphan, too."

Wes snorted, snickering against Travis shoulder as he suddenly let his head drop. "Thanks."

Travis smirked. "Maybe we could fix that now."

And that was it. Wes busted out laughing, and if they turned into shoulder wracking sobs, Travis didn't notice. But he made sure to let Wes know he wasn't kidding about that last part.

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Soooo….stop here? If you say keep going, where should I take it? Reviews welcomed! LOVED!


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Just bromance. Hurt comfort. Mild angst. There's a sort of dodgy line about Wes's mother I'll let you interpret as you will. And no, this is STILL not slash. So nyah! :-P Also, while Wes is having his nightmare, in my head I had the vocal parts of the song "The Bridge of Khazad Dum" playing in my head, so if you feel like musical accompaniment, listen to that.

Also: I do not have spell check on this computer. I think I caught everything, but there's usually a couple that escape me. And writing when I'm dead tired and should be in bed probably doesn't help. As always, review!

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Wes mostly regretted ever bringing up his childhood. He hated being treated differently, and in truth, he liked it better when Travis would give him a hard time about everything. It made him feel less breakable if people stopped treating him like he was made of glass.

Travis wouldn't be so bad if he had a crappier memory. Every time he started treating Wes like he used to, like they could argue and banter and still be fine with one another, he would suddenly get this deer-caught-in-the-headlights look and suddenly stop whatever argument they were having, like he'd forgotten that he was supposed to be treating Wes differently now.

The only real upside was that the people in therapy left him alone when he told them to back off. He still offered up a bare minimum of information to get them to shut up and act like he was still participating, but that was it. But there were little, random moments that Wes knew they were trying their hardest to make him feel better, to let him know they cared, but they still wound up freaking him out more than anything.

To be perfectly honest, he was never a huge touchy feely person. He never really got used to the idea that hugs were something to look forward to and not cringe away from because you thought the hug would turn bone crushing just as you started to relax. Wes wasn't even sure if he would've been the hugging sort even if he'd had a normal childhood. It just seemed…too personal for him. The women would randomly smile at him, or ask him about his day or if he'd met a girl yet. The men would cautiously clap him on the back and tell him about their dating strategies for how they picked up their wives. Very touching, really. Trying to include him in the group.

Wes hated it.

To his very core. He couldn't sit still in therapy anymore. He found himself purposely showing up later and later just so he wouldn't have time to socialize. He made up ridiculous reasons why he couldn't accept baked goods or anything else they suddenly decided he needed. He spoke less and fidgeted more. It was like every fiber of his being told him to run and he couldn't. He even literally tried to run out his newfound nervous energy and ten and a half miles later his feet and legs hurt like hell but he was still twitchy.

Wes was always normally reclusive and solitary in the best of times, and now he was becoming a hermit. He hardly even bothered to go to the restaurant anymore, instead opting for room service and staying away from everyone.

Travis was the only one who noticed, apparently. Or stopped long enough to realize that something was terribly off with his partner. Wes didn't argue with him anymore, he barely even spoke. He looked dead tired and perpetually on edge at the same time. His mask of indifference was looking more strained by the day, and he was wound tight enough that Travis was afraid that any loud noise or sudden motion or unexpected contact was going to send him spiraling.

And Travis had no idea what to do about it.

The cosmos, little help that it was already, apparently decided that Wes just wasn't having a bad enough time of it as it was. Wes should've expected it, considering his new diet (or lack thereof), and the recently unattainable decent sleep, but he didn't get sick all that often. He didn't get sick often, but when he did, he went downhill _fast_. The signs of exhaustion and the oncoming flu were apparently too similar for even Travis to recognize until it was too late.

"Wes, come on, man. You look terrible. You look worse than terrible. You look like death. Or smashed ass. Let me take you home," Travis insisted for the third time that evening.

Considering Wes's energy level had dropped to point where lifting his head from the desk in order to glare at his partner seemed like a monumental task, he might have to agree with Travis. Just this once. He could barely manage an intelligent enough response to confirm that yeah, maybe he should go home. His head was beginning to spin and he felt like he was coming off the worst bender in all of human history. Even the light from the desk lamp was beginning to burn through his closed eyelids and make his building headache worse.

Something wonderfully cold pressed against his forehead and he automatically leaned into it, sighing contentedly at the relief from the heat.

"Yeah, it's definitely time to go, partner. You've got one hell of a fever if you're not even arguing this. Let's go," Travis said, and heaved Wes to his feet. Fortunately, they had been working late for the past couple of nights, going over cold cases while they caught some unusual down time, and there was no one left in the office to witness Travis almost carry Wes to his car.

"People are going to think you're drunk," Travis chided, bodily wrestling Wes into the passanger seat of the Chrysler. "Couldn't you help just a little?"

"Mmm," Wes mumbled, his head lolling to one side. "This is helping."

"Not what I meant, but whatever," Travis grumbled, and belying his complaint, he gingerly moved Wes's head to the other side so he wouldn't hit it with the car door when he closed it after fastening the seat belt across his lap. With the way Wes's luck was going, if he forgot the belt or just ignored it, he was probably going to wind up through the windshield in some freak car accident.

Wes didn't even manage to stay awake the length of time it took Travis to walk around the outside of the car to climb in the driver's seat.

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Wes felt like he was drowning. In an ocean, dark and deep. Every time he broke the surface, something else pulled him down or pushed him under. He couldn't breathe, and every time he tried to pull much needed air into his lungs, he wound up coughing so hard he started to retch. Whenever he tried to open his eyes, they stung with salt and everything blurred together into one horrible lazily spinning nightmare, and forced them shut again.

Reality flitted in front of him – bare glimpses of the ride home, of Travis practically carrying him into Travis's own apartment and being put to bed. But as rational as those images were, they didn't feel as real as his father dunking him in an ice bath, or his mother, pressing against broken ribs, pushing him back on the bed.

In Wes's head, he knew he was a thirty five year old man, with police training and experience enough to be able to take on a fair fight. But in the throes of delerium, he was facing off against monsters made of shadows that could push and pull and _hurt_ no matter what he did. His strength in the nightmares was that of a malnourished thirteen year old, and it felt as useless as trying to swap a tiger with a rolled newspaper.

Strong arms wrapped around his chest, pulling him back into the shadow's embrace, and he couldn't help the panic that rose like a tide against the darkness that suddenly surrounded him.

This wasn't right. He'd escaped, hadn't he? The nightmare was over, wasn't it?

Fire licked at his feet and he automatically picked them up, pulling them towards his chest, curling forwards away from the shadow still trying to crush the air from his lungs.

The shadows weren't expecting that particular movement, and he felt himself falling for what felt like forever. He felt his head bounce off of something softer than concrete, and a star burst across the darkness of his vision.

The fire continued to grow, and he felt like his skin was beginning to sear off his bones there was someone screaming in the black, and he pushed his hands against his ears to block it out. Hands reached out to grab him again, and this time it was him screaming at them to let him go, just please, leave him alone. His arms were clasped in front of him, pinned against one another by a vice as the shadows tried to pull him along – he didn't know where, and he didn't want to know. He wasn't about to let them take him. He arched his back and kicked his feet, connecting the back of his head with something that gave way, but while the arms loosened, the monsters didn't let him go. His foot caught something, and there was a crash, but other than a muffled curse, the darkness remained.

It was so hot, Wes could feel himself panting, short, shallow gasps of burning hot air that seared down his throat and his lungs. He didn't even have the energy to scream anymore as he felt himself burning alive. The shadows changed form, sliding from faceless demons to that of his mother and father in a dizzying kaleidescope of colors, throwing off his center of gravity so badly he felt like the world was revolving around him a million times faster than it had any right to. His stomach rolled as he felt the world pitch and roll around him as he drowned in an ocean of fire.

Except…there was a hiss, a sputter, far above him, and suddenly the rain came, sizzling as it came into contact with his burning skin. The sound of water on stone filled his ears, and he couldn't hear the horrible screaming anymore, or the sound of his father's bored laughter, or his mother's drunken giggles. The shadows faded into nothing, driven back by the soothing rain that pelted him from head to toe, soaking his clothes and his skin, washing away the nightmare as the tide washed away a sand castle.

Wes breathed a sigh of relief, and he flinched automatically when he felt it echoed next to his ear. The rain hadn't washed away everything – hands and arms still held his own against his chest, but they weren't bruising, or mocking. They were simply there, holding him upright against the wall.

As the roaring of the sea faded, he could hear someone talking to him. Did he hear sniffling?

Wes cracked an eye open, blinking against the water running down his face. The world slowly came into focus. He was in Travis's bathroom, sitting on the floor of the shower as the cold water fell. Even fevered, his brain started cataloguing the scene, though it still didn't make much sense to him. Everything was knocked over or tossed around, the corner of the mirror broken and starting to spiderweb upwards. His brain sort of hiccuped at why he would possibly be in Travis's apartment, in the shower no less, when it looked like there was a break in. His barefeet were curled awkwardly against the shower glass and partially folded underneath him, and he felt exhausted, like he'd just run a mini marathon or gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson.

"You with me, man?" Travis asked.

Wes glanced down at the hands holding him up, one wrapped around his back and the other across his chest, despite both of his hands clenched what must have been painfully tight around the arm in front of him. With serious effort, he managed to roll his head back, wincing as it came in contact with the wall of the shower, to try and look at his partner.

"Travis?" Wes asked, and wondered why it sounded like a question to him. He squinted, willing his eyes to focus, and he saw the worried look on his partner's face, and the darkening bruise high on his cheek. The older man was just as soaked as he was, in what looked like an even more awkward position than he was in, considering the shower really wasn't designed for two grown men their size to be sitting in it like this.

Travis gave a shuddering laugh, but he sounded relieved, which also seemed odd to Wes. "Yeah, it's me. You're not going to hit me again, are you?"

The words made little sense to Wes, and somewhere he suspected that his fever addled mind wasn't helping his case. He blinked slowly. "Travis…are you crying?"

There was a momentary pause, and Travis nodded, smiling sheepishly. "Yeah."

A beat. "Sorry. 'Cause of me?"

"No, Wes. I'm not crying 'cause of you," Travis assured.

Wes let his eyelids drop, and he leaned back against the shower wall, letting the cool water spatter across his face.

He missed Travis's whispered confession. "I'm crying _for_ you…"

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Ok, I just sort of ran with it. Hopefully it all goes together, but rest assured, I also plan on writing the next chapter from Travis's point of view on this whole incident, starting when Wes starts to hallucinate. After that, this story will be done. I may or may not do a sequel, depending on how I can introduce Wes's parents without it being overdone.

Also, since I got a complaint last time: Everyone else can post what they want. I'll post what I want, and I'll thank you to shut the hell up about it. Do I review every slash story bitching that they wrote a romance? No? Then quiet. It's not even I don't like slash – I don't like what basically amounts to "50 Shades of Gray" in less than a thousand words, where it's pretty much soft core (or hardcore) porn without plot. That's why I _don't read it_. You can to your little heart's desire. Go nuts. I'm not stopping you. I'm not a huge fan of romance of ANY kind, unless it's canon. I like Nick and Juliet in "Grimm", Sam and Jessica or Dean and Lisa off of "Supernatural" or Mike and Jenny/Rachel off of "Suits." And I still draw the line at PWP. I like a storyline.

And now that my lecture/whining is done….read and review!


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: This picks up roughly when Travis brings Wes back to his apartment. Someone asked about the fact that I have Travis in an apartment and not the trailer seen in the first episode, and I'm going to go with pilots are generally different from the rest of the show in some details. My example is Psych – Henry lived in a one story beach bungalow not 10 feet from a seaward cliff in the pilot, and in every episode after that, he had the two story house Shawn grew up in the middle of suburbia. The episode with the dog has Travis in an apartment, so I'm going to stick with that idea for now. As always, read and review, and STILL not slash. In fact, still no romance. Between anyone. In my world, lovebirds don't even like one another. :-) By the way, I have to snicker at the Captain trying to talk to Wes about his parents. I'm almost dead positive that Wes just had absent parents, nothing like what I describe, but if I'm right, some people owe me big bucks. Oh, and there is a possibly dodgy comment about his mom and dad when Wes is hallucinating – draw what you will from it. Reviews, comments, welcome!

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Wes wasn't kidding when he said he may not get sick often, but when he did, he made it count. Travis had never seen anyone go downhill quite as fast as he was witnessing Wes do, but then, Wes never did anything half assed.

After a couple minutes of fumbling, he managed to wrestle Wes inside his apartment, mostly under his own power but with the motor coordination of a punch drunk boxer on his 90th beer.

Wes sick was actually kind of amusing – he didn't drink a lot, and he never drank enough when he did to be able to get drunk. It made sense now, but Travis really wished he could figure out a way for Wes to be able to express some form of emotion other than sarcasm. Being so ill he didn't know what he was saying was probably about as loose lipped as he was ever going to get.

"Come on, bud. You're going straight to bed. And yes, I have fresh sheets on the guest bed, because like you like to point out, no one ever sleeps in it," Travis said, pulling Wes along with him down the short hallway, one arm around his waist and the other holding Wes's arm around his neck for support.

Wes was apparently a slightly vindictive sick person, because just as he managed to get Wes near the bed, he stuck his foot out and tripped Travis, sending them both flopping onto the bed face first with a muffled "oomph" on Travis's part. Wes simply laughed drunkenly, not bothering to move from his face planted position in the middle of the bed.

"Betcha think you're _real_ funny, don't ya, with that little trick?" Travis couldn't help the smirk at the goofy, glassy eyed look on his partner's face. "Let's get you out of the suit. You'll throw a hissy fit later if I let you sleep in it, no matter how sick you are." He bodily pulled Wes's suit jacket off of him, with no help from his partner who actually seemed to be going out of his way to do as little work as possible right now.

"I don' wanna wrestle," Wes whined, smiling loopily as he pushed away from Travis as tugged a well loved black t-shirt over his partner's head. Wes never wore an under shirt for the suit shirts, so despite the fact that Wes was burning up right now, Travis knew he would probably freeze to death later without anything. Travis was really trying hard not to laugh, because honestly, Wes sick was like a little kid.

"We're not wrestling, I'm trying to get you to go to bed," Travis argued back. "Think you can handle pants on your own?"

"I have been dressing myself for years, thankyou," Wes snapped back, but all bite was lost to the comment when he smiled again. He carefully sat back up and swayed dangerously to one side, but put one hand out to brace himself, shaking his head at Travis when he lunged forwards to catch him. "I've got this." He carefully toed off his shoes, and Travis turned around to give him the momentary privacy to change and was rather surprised when Wes managed it without falling face first into the carpet.

After a minute of arguing with Wes that he probably shouldn't sleep on top of the covers if he had a raging fever that seemed to be affecting his higher brain functions, Travis (to his own surprise) managed to get Wes settled, and from the look on his face, just in time. Wes was no long for the waking world.

"All right. You, go to sleep. I'll leave water next to the bed and if you're still awake when I get back, I'll see if you can handle some Tylenol, okay?"

"Mmm…" was the only reply he got, and by the time Travis got back to the room, Wes was out cold, face buried in the pillow and blanket pulled up around his ears, pretty much burrowing into the bed. Travis could help the slight chuckle, and left the glass of water and two tablets of Tylenol next to the bed, and moved the waste basket closer to the bed, so if Wes did take a turn for the worse, he would at least just be able to roll over and not mess up the carpet. He turned off the lights and left the door cracked open so there would still be light if Wes woke and needed to find the bathroom.

Travis was actually smiling, despite the situation, and he felt minutely guilty about it. But it reminded him of all the times he took care of his foster siblings when they were sick. The foster parents usually had their hands full with the usually multiple kids running around and their day time jobs, so if someone else could help out, they were more than supportive. Travis really did think of Wes as a brother – but he was just so completely opposite of everyone that Travis grew up with, that he found himself floundering trying to make a connection.

Wes didn't do hugs, claps on the backs, or really any sort of contact. It was a fight to get him to finally do a congratulatory fist bump. He didn't have any stories of sibling rivalry, close friends, or really anything he was willing to talk about. Travis knew there were certain topics strictly off limits – like why he quit being a lawyer, and until recently, why he and Alex split. Wes didn't share feelings, and for a while, Travis thought it was something he had against Travis personally, but after the first couple of years as partners, he realized Wes was like that with everyone. He was distant and aloof and sarcastic because that was simply the way he was. A lot more of it made sense now, considering how he was raised (if you could even call it that…Travis had a mental note to hunt down Wes's parents one day and have a stern lecture with them about child rearing. With a baseball bat), but a lot of it was just Wes. In fact, this was probably about as much physical contact they'd had in what felt like months. Probably since the last time he had to take care of him, which was after he'd gotten shot…and Travis promptly stomped on that train of thought. No need to think about that. He had nightmares for weeks afterwards, and he didn't want to think about how bad it must have been for Wes. At least he didn't actually remember it…traumatic circumstances specific amnesia and all that.

Travis didn't mean to fall asleep on the couch watching highlight games for the Lakers, but he did. It took him a second to realize what exactly had woken him, because the TV volume was set fairly low.

Then he heard Wes's coughing. Not just normal coughing like clearing your throat, but like he was having issues breathing in between bouts, and he was instantly on his feet, bolting for the guest room.

When he flicked on the lights, the sight that greeted him wasn't pretty.

Wes was hunched over on himself, coughing harshly as his face turned red, barely managing to pull in a shuddering breath before it triggered more coughing. Sweat beaded across his forehead and his blonde hair was dark and damp, pressed against his skull as he shook with the force of his coughing.

"Shit!" Travis said, darting forwards in just enough time to put the waste basket underneath Wes's nose as he abruptly threw up.

Travis pushed his hand against Wes's forehead and cringed at the heat there. His temperature was spiking insanely high, and Travis kicked himself for not getting a thermometer earlier. "Damn, man. You're burning up. I'll be right back with ice, ok?"

Without thinking, he put his hand on Wes's back for comfort, but the younger man saw it as anything but that. Wes flinched, violently throwing himself away from the contact so hard he tumbled off the other side of the bed.

"Whoa! Hey, it's just me!" Travis said, holding up his hands placatingly. "Just me!"

Wes's coughing started up again as he rolled onto his side, and he blinked rapidly against the sweat running in his eyes. As soon as Travis came around the foot of the bed though, Wes backpedaled into the corner, chest heaving as he tried to stop coughing. "Don't…touch…me," he rasped out, throat raw from coughing and retching.

"I'm just trying to help," Travis said, staying where he currently was. "But your fever is getting really high, and we need to get it down."

Something about what he said, or hell, maybe it wasn't anything Travis did at all, but some long buried memory the fever brought forward. Wes looked absolutely terrified of the prospect. "No! Don't get the ice!"

"We need to get your fever down, Wes!" Travis protested, crouching down. In the back of his head, he thought he remembered something about Wes's dad and ice, but couldn't focus long enough to remember it. Wes's fever was high enough that he could see that despite all of his clothes being soaked with sweat, his arms were looking dry, and his lips chapped and cracking, which all pointed to dehydration and dangerously high temperatures. He had a fleeting memory of one foster brother who was dehydrated enough that they had to bring him to the hospital (where, to Travis's endless amusement he felt the need to communicate solely in binary) and that was the last place he wanted to bring Wes if he could help it. "Let's go."

"_Don't touch me!_" Wes shouted, voice small, pleading, and desperate, one arm outstretched, fingers splayed nearly touching Travis's shirt but not quite. "Please, _leave me alone_…"

Travis hated himself for it, but he really didn't have the patience or the time to try and talk to Wes through his delerium to convince him he was really just trying to help. "I'm sorry, man, but I don't know what else to do…" he reached for Wes's arm so he couldn't hit him, efficiently managing to snake his other arm around Wes while simultaneously maneuvering behind him, ultimately winding up in a bear hug with his arms pinning Wes's before he could strike out. It wasn't a strong grip, or a painful one, Travis made sure he was holding him just tight enough so he could grab him again if his partner decided to attack him in his delusions.

You would've thought he'd just shanked Wes in the kidney. Wes howled in terror, immediately trying to squirm out of Travis's grip even as Travis pulled him to his feet. He had no intention of making Wes suffer any longer than necessary, and his whole world was narrowed to the short walk from guest room to bathroom.

Travis thought he was prepared for anything that Wes might try – he was used to wrestling angry 'roid heads to the ground, so he should have relatively little issue with anything Wes tried.

Except it wasn't anything Wes did that made Travis's heart stutter. It was what he _said_.

Terrified, desperate pleading to his imagined father and mother not to hurt him. He didn't mean it and he was _sorry, please don't…please **don't**_…He pushed and pulled but with half the strength that Travis knew he was capable of, not hurting or striking out at him, just trying desperately to get away, though he did manage to elbow Travis pretty good in his face, up near his eye. Wes grabbed at anything he thought he could reach, pulling towels off the rack and accidentally kicking a hole in the drywall, before launching his head back so fiercely Travis couldn't stop him from cracking the back of his head against the mirror. When Wes suddenly pulled his feet up as if he'd stepped on something sharp and rocketed forwards, Travis immediately shifted his grip on his partner, one hand sliding lower on his chest near his lower stomach just to keep from dropping him on the tile.

And that's when Wes really lost it. There weren't even words anymore, just petrified shrieking, and the former tremors became spasmodic, violent shaking. Tears streaked down Wes's face, and Travis tried so hard to crush any thought of what could make someone like Wes scream like that. _No, no, no, no_….

Grabbing both of Wes's hands in one of his, Travis flung the shower door open and hit the cold water knob, practically tumbling into the shower with Wes who was now openly sobbing. If this didn't work, if it didn't snap Wes out of it, he didn't know what else to try, or even how he'd manage to get to his cell in order to call an ambulance. Travis wasn't big on religion, but damn if he wasn't praying right now.

The cold water hit Wes's face, and for a split second, he tensed and Travis thought he was about to freak out again…but relief washed over him just as the chilled water did when Wes heaved an audible sigh of relief, slumping in Travis grip as they both sank to the floor, the water beating down on them.

Travis sniffed, and suddenly realized it wasn't just water on his face. He hadn't even realized that he was crying. He wasn't even sure why. Relief? No, that didn't sound right…as Travis tried to pinpoint the feeling, he felt Wes shift, turning glazed eyes to him, blue eyes streaked with red and muddled with confusion as he looked around the destroyed bathroom. Anything that he imagined earlier was forgotten again…or buried.

"Travis?" Wes rasped, questioningly, and Travis smiled brokenly, releasing a shuddering laugh and a breath he didn't even know he was holding.

"Yeah, it's me. You're not going to hit me again, are you?"

He could see Wes was lost at the comment, his blue eyes flicking to the bruise he knew was forming on his cheek. Wes blinked slowly. "Travis…are you crying?"

There was a momentary pause, and Travis nodded, smiling sheepishly. "Yeah."

A beat. "Sorry. 'Cause of me?"

Realization suddenly hit Travis like a train. He wasn't crying in relief, or in sadness. He was crying for all that Wes endured in silence - his misery, his fear, his memories he couldn't share. "No, Wes. I'm not crying 'cause of you," Travis assured.

Wes let his eyelids drop, and he leaned back against the shower wall, letting the cool water spatter across his face in relief from the heat Travis could still feel radiating from him. No. Travis wasn't crying _because_ of Wes...

"I'm crying _for_ you…" he whispered.

CLCLCLCLCL

And TA DA! My first finished multi chaptered fic for Common Law. I really did have someone who was so delerious from fever that they could tell up from down, real from fake and for some absurd reason no one understands, felt that they only way they could communicate with us was through binary. This means he shrieked, "ZERO ZERO ONE ZERO ONE ONE ZERO ONE….!" It was hilarious, if not a little concerning. Also, I do plan on writing another story with Wes's parents coming back, but I made need an idea beta for help. Any volunteers? J

Soap box time: since I've gotten several messages with this general theme – do not mistake my dislike for PWP slash fiction for homophobia. I'm friends with all sorts of people, heterosexual, homosexual, asexual, and lots of people others don't get along with at all (and it has nothing to do with their orientation). If you look at my favorite stories, there are actually a couple of slash stories there (I think), but I like them because they are actual _romances_. Not just sex stories for the sake of having sex in them. But here's a thought that my friend gave me while we were having this discussion. When he came out to his family, they were nothing but supportive. His little sister in fact decided to show her support by writing some pretty hot and heavy slash fanfiction. He said he didn't mind for the most part, but what bothered him was how it was done. He pointed out that a lot of the reason he didn't want to come out to friends was because he was afraid all of his guy friends would think he was secretly lusting after them their entire friendship and everything would be awkward between them from then on out (think of you around your crush versus your friend – you act totally different right? Especially if they know you like them but they don't like you back). PWP slash fiction makes it seem like that's all their relationships, and that they're not romantic at all, just in it for the sex. Sooo….that's my little rant on the subject. Again, I have nothing against it. I do have issues with people repeatedly suggesting I make all of mine slash fiction, or tell me that I am writng preslash and it's so obvious, etc. I KNOW what I'm writing. And no, it's not slash.


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